


many happy returns

by fireblazie



Series: raise a tiger verse [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Family, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10048457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: Three birthdays over the course of Yuri Plisetsky's life.A companion fic tohow to raise a tiger.(Russian translationhere!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> a companion fic to _how to raise a tiger_ , as mentioned in the summary. Things may not make too much sense if you haven't read the first one!
> 
> this is pretty much a last-minute effort written solely for yuri's birthday. nothing like last minute panic, right?

**I.**

  

Yuri turns eight on a cloudy Tuesday, stuck in the back of a dusty old classroom learning about animals and their habitats. Today they’re learning about tigers, which makes having to go to school on his birthday just a little more bearable. His teacher’s brought a small stuffed Tigger for demonstration purposes. Yuri wonders if she’ll give it to him if he tells her it’s his birthday.

He’s eager to get home after school ends, climbing into the back of his mother’s old red car. “Is he here?” he demands, flinging his backpack onto the floor. “Did he bring them?”

His mother laughs at him, warm and fond. “Your father is picking him up, little cat,” and Yuri wrinkles his nose at the endearment. “And you called him no less than ten times last week to remind him. How could he possibly forget?”

The sight of their small house and his father’s gray car brings a gasp of relief to Yuri’s lips. He shoves his backpack over one shoulder and barrels in through the front door.

“Grandpa!”

His grandfather smells as he always does: like the tobacco from his pipe and the musk of his aftershave. His arms are sturdy and warm as they come up to embrace Yuri tightly around his shoulders.

“Yurochka,” his father scolds, “you know to be careful with his back.”

“Oh, hush,” his grandfather says, “and let me hug my grandson.”

Over his grandfather’s shoulder, Yuri sticks his tongue out at his father. His father rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and reaches over to ruffle Yuri’s hair.

“Happy birthday, sunshine,” he says.

“Thanks,” Yuri says, letting go of his grandfather. “Hey, hey, did you bring it?”

In response, his grandfather jerks his head towards a large brown bag sitting on their kitchen counter, oil spots already soaking through the paper. Yuri leaps towards it and carefully opens the bag. He lets out a giddy laugh, inhaling the smell of freshly baked pirozhki.

“You’re the best,” he utters with feeling, digging into the bag and sinking his teeth into the first bun he grabs. 

His grandfather laughs at him. “Is it good?”

Yuri nods enthusiastically. “The best!”

Later, his mother will bring out the strawberry cake she and his father made from scratch. Later, Yuri will blow out all of the candles on his first try, and his parents and grandfather will take turns pulling on his ears. He will eat and eat until he can’t eat anymore, and will fall asleep on his grandfather’s lap, sleepy and content.

(He doesn’t know it then, but that birthday ends up being the last birthday he ever spends with them, and the memory of his grandfather’s pirozhki and his parents’ homemade strawberry cake will become something terribly precious and jealously guarded for a long, long time.)

 

**II.**

Yuri’s ninth birthday also occurs on a school day.

Viktor is an idiot, but he isn’t a bad person. A distant cousin once or twice-removed, Yuri knows Viktor had no obligations. He could have left him to fend for himself. He didn’t have to take him in.

And yet he did.

Viktor is—strange. He’s alternately warm and then cold, overly attentive and then strangely distant. Yuri leaves him be, most days. Viktor’s apartment is only a five-minute walk from his new school, so he doesn’t bother asking him for rides to and from class. Viktor is a mediocre cook at best, and his repertoire consists of only three dishes. Yuri prefers to buy his lunches from the school cafeteria anyway.

It’s a gray and dreary day, today, and Yuri stands just beneath the awning of the school’s front entrance, staring balefully at the buckets of rain emptying out onto the world. It’s not like Yuri carries around an umbrella, and his school bus has already left. With a heavy sigh, he throws his hood over his head and steps out into the storm.

He’s soaked to the bone within seconds, but there’s something almost freeing about it. Despite himself, he begins to laugh. It’s barely audible over the torrential rain, but he continues to laugh until he cries, his tears hidden cleverly by the rain spattering down his face.

A sleek black sedan pulls up to him, the driver sounding the horn urgently. Yuri flips his wet hair out of his face, ready for a fight.

The passenger window rolls down, and Viktor peers out at him, alarmed. “Yura, _get in_ ,” he orders, and Yuri is too stunned by his sudden appearance to argue.

His clothes make an unpleasant squelching noise as he settles into Viktor’s leather seats. He peels off his backpack, setting it down on the floor by his feet.

“You should have called me,” Viktor says, mouth pressed into a thin line. “You shouldn’t be out walking in this weather. Why didn’t you take the bus?”

“Don’t like the bus,” Yuri mutters, staring out the window, watching the rain fall, fall, fall. “Your place isn’t that far.”

“Still.” Viktor sounds displeased. Yuri turns so that he can study him out of the corner of his eye. Viktor is distinctly unhappy, brow furrowed. “You can—you can _call_ me, you know?”

“I know,” Yuri says, even though he really hadn’t. 

The remainder of their short drive is filled with tense silence, and Yuri is glad to get out of Viktor’s car and into the apartment. He heads straight for their shared bathroom, peeling his clothes off and stepping into the hot shower, washing the remnants of the day away. 

Makkachin is waiting for him outside the door, and he leans down to absentmindedly scratch behind his ears as he towels his hair dry with his other hand.

The light is on in the kitchen, so Yuri heads there first. Viktor looks lost in thought from Yuri’s vantage point, robotically stirring a pot on the stove. Then Yuri’s focus goes to the pale pink box on the counter.

“What’s that?”

“Stroganoff,” Viktor says absently, and then blinks slowly at him. (A point, here: Viktor has the same eyes as his mother. Yuri had gotten his eyes from his father. Genetics can be funny that way. It’s what makes it hard to look at Viktor, sometimes.) “Oh. That’s your birthday cake, of course. I forgot to tell you earlier. Happy Birthday, Yura.”

Yuri steps closer to the counter, mostly for something to lean on. “You remembered.” 

“Of course I did.” Viktor frowns. “Did you think I’d forgotten?” 

“You just—” Yuri abruptly sinks to the floor, burying his face in Makkachin’s fur. “You don’t always seem to care.”

Silence. Yuri hears Viktor turn the stove off. Hears the sound of his feet padding across the kitchen floor. Feels more than hears him hovering above him, uncertain.

“I care,” Viktor says, at last.

“Yeah,” Yuri says, eyes fixed firmly on Makkachin’s fur. “I know.”

  

**III.**

Yuri turns twelve in Los Angeles.

It’s stupidly sunny and stupidly hot, and Yuri is convinced that he will literally melt onto the sidewalk. As school as the last bell rings, he hightails it out of the building and heads straight for Ice Castle, yearning for the welcoming ice. 

The arena, strangely enough, is pitch-black when he arrives. The door is unlocked, though, and there are no signs of forced entry. He flips the lights on in the front waiting area, but there is nothing. He briefly debates leaving altogether, but decides against it. He walks into the rink: still dark, still quiet. He frowns, then turns to leave.

The lights flicker into existence, fluorescent and blinding. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YURIO!”

Yuri blinks at them.

It’s—everyone. Viktor, obviously, lingering close to Yuuri, which Yuri is mostly okay with, even if he has some lingering resentment that hits him unexpectedly every now and then. Yuuko and Takeshi, with their triplets. Phichit, his phone already in hand to document every moment. Kenjirou, waving two bright orange balloons wildly. Otabek, clapping solemnly as the rest of the group erupts in cheers.

“What do we say when someone does something nice for us?” Viktor teases, ruffling Yuri’s hair. Yuri growls at him.

“Didn’t ask for this,” he mutters.

“He means ‘thank you very much,’” Viktor chirps, as Yuri scowls.

“Let’s sing!” Phichit declares as the birthday cake is brought out, and Yuri is subjected to some frankly terrible singing as his birthday cake, lit by a single orange candle, makes its way in front of him. Viktor ends up holding the cake in front of him, smiling slightly. Yuri rolls his eyes, leans in, and blows out the candle.

As he pulls, back, he takes his first good look at the cake. 

It’s pink.

“It’s strawberry,” Yuuri says, watching him anxiously. “Is it—is it okay? It’s my favorite.”

Yuri pauses, struck by a memory he’d tried to cram away in the dusty corners of his mind. For so long, he’s tried to compartmentalize his life into Before and After.  Before was his parents. Before was his grandfather. And yet, surrounded by his new friends in an ice rink, Yuri can’t help but feel strangely, oddly warm.

“It’s my favorite, too,” Yuri says.

 

**FIN**


End file.
